Ear Candy Meet Nose Candy
by one-blue-eye
Summary: Jack is forced to attend a week of meetings at Torchwood One. While he's stuck in London, Ianto is stuck in Cardiff, attending his sister's husband's brother's wedding. Poor frustrated, sexless Jack runs into John and Sherlock at the end of a very long day and sparks fly. John is delighted when Sherlock meets someone he can't deduce. Sherlock, is not. This is a crossover. Obviously
1. UNDEDUCIBLE

**DISCLAIMER & SUCH:  
This is a work of fiction. If it resembles you ****in any way, I envy you. These are not my ****characters, they don't belong to me nor do ****I make any money from them. **

**This is a bit of crack that hit me sometime late last night. It's supposed to be funny and a little bit dirty. I apologize if it's neither. ****It you are reading TO DO OR ****NOT TO DO, the events in this story ****occur sometime during**** February 2006 (between chapter 34 and 35). Please drop me a line if you enjoy it. Thanks!**

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**Ear Candy Meet Nose Candy**

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~1~

UNDEDUCIBLE

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"**WHAT?! YOUR'RE…_ NO._ THAT'S… UNACCEPTABLE!"** Sherlock bares his teeth. He spins, snapping his coattails dramatically and then storms off, presumably to embrace his wholehearted disgust somewhere more amenable.

John stands stock still, trapped by wonder and awe. Something's caught him and it feels like he's being reeled in. _What is that smell?_ He wonders. He looks around for the source. A handful of seconds pass where John is suspended in time. However, once he regains control over his senses, he eagerly introduces himself. He sticks out his hand. "Dr. John Watson. It's an honour—no, a pleasure to meet you." He chirps, his smile brighter than ever. "I've never seen him so stumped." He couldn't help the grin. He's giddy. He is utterly joyous. Sherlock—_speechless_—well, nearly—as speechless as he's ever been. _Stumped_. At the very least.

**JACK TAKES THE PROFFERED HAND**, shakes it well. Holds on. "I'm not sure I understand." He chuckles, in spite of himself. On second thought and on closer inspection he decides he doesn't need to understand. He just needs a little… His mega-watt grin lights up the street.

John, oblivious as usual, continues on blindly, and finds himself the potential victim of Jack's accelerated libido. Unwittingly, he steps into range of Jack's advanced sex pheromones, which are currently revving unfettered and accelerating at an unprecedented rate due to an untimely sexual time-out.

At present, Jack is all kinds of sullen. He's fighting the inevitable, on principle. He's a wayward calf desperately trying to avoid the inevitable sting of the lasso. This obligation may be unavoidable but he'll be dammed if he doesn't drag his feet the whole way there. Every day this week, he'll attend the Annual Senior Director's Meetings being held in London while Ianto, his unbelievably sexy lover, is required by familial contractual obligation, to attend his sister's husband's brother's wedding, simultaneously being held in Cardiff. These concurrent mandatory functions have thrown a bit of a wrinkle into their usually well-oiled sexual shenanigans. As in, there haven't been any—for days.

**IN DAYS PAST**, this simply wouldn't have been a problem for Jack. There were line-ups, cues, lines, everywhere, even now, even years after initial contact had been made. Those lucky individuals, having once been exposed to Jack's unparalleled sexual prowess, were left quivering, desperate and ready to wait an eternity for another crack at the cat—even a nice petting—perhaps a little scratch under the chin. He could literally walk out onto the street, or into any establishment, whether it is a nightclub or a coffee shop and have availed to him a prime selection of delectable sexual partner(s), at the mere snap of a few nimble fingers.

But now, he's in a relationship.

John's usually near adequate mind is quickly being ravaged by Jack's seductive aromatic presence and is fast approaching the mental acuity of Jell-O. His other senses, now released from their previous master's steady control, race about willy-nilly, wreaking havoc with his speech centres and locomotion.

**LIFE HASN'T BEEN THE SAME SINCE HE MET SHERLOCK. **With varying degrees of uncertain pleasure, John regularly finds himself entangled in a fairly broad spectrum of sticky situations ranging from the slightly tacky strip of a damp sticky note to the unforgiving grip of an ultra-bond cement so he is quick to pull out his ever-present mobile at the first sign of trouble. His fingers at the ready, he prepares for a sending. He attempts a retrieval of the standard protocol for typing a text message. The information is not forthcoming. Red flags are flapping everywhere. There is a disconnect somewhere between his fingers and his heavily engorged phallic member hanging somewhere below his bellybutton. Apparently, it is redirecting blood-flow away from his brain, severely restricting mental processes related to memory storage, organization and retrieval.

Recognizing a dangerous situation when he sees one, he instead presses the little green button usually reserved for _other-people_. Around the corner, under a tree, on a bench, facing north, Sherlock is still scowling and ranting uproariously at his mental projection of John.

**THE RINGING SOUND**, usually reserved for _not-his-people_, barely registers through the symphonic clamour of his fully operational Mind Palace. However, due to the physical absence of _his John_ he makes an allowance, allots an unutilized portion of his mental faculties (usually reserved for wiping his ass) and checks the caller-ID on his phone. _John. John never calls. When he can text. John couldn't. Text. Dammit John. Always getting into trouble. Without me. John. My John. Where are you John?_

He answers the call with a quick, "Yes?" but John doesn't speak. In the background however, he _can_ hear THAT MAN. _Unacceptable._ THAT MAN. WRONG. WRONG. MAN.

He jumps down from his shaded perch, under the tree, around the corner and retraces his steps back to John's last verified position. Exactly 602 seconds later, he finds John. He is standing very, very close to THAT MAN. Unacceptably close. He is still holding his phone, it hangs limply by his side. "Difficult to project your voice into the receiver from all the way down there John." _Silly John_.

The sound of Sherlock's voice startles John out of his trance-like state, which was induced by the sudden overload of his olfactory receptors. He's been staring into those eyes since Sherlock left and he hasn't moved a muscle. On the inside, he's been struggling to remain in control. He's been cataloguing all the ways that HE-IS-NOT-GAY and it is taking a great deal of effort. He silently hopes Sherlock doesn't look down, at his crotch, which is refusing to listen to his perfectly straight(ish) brain which is quite insistent that (1) he is definitely NOT-GAY and (2) is not attracted to this strangely intoxicating man. His crotch has other ideas. They'll be having a chat about_ that_ later. He knows the odds aren't in his favour (about the looking down bit). Sherlock always sees everything.

"**WHY IS HE SO GRUMPY?"** The question slips innocently from Jack's lips, dulcet tones wrapped in a thick sticky cloud of honey. John feels the cloud wrap around his cock, too. He groans and his breath catches in his throat. He is absolutely parched, desperate for some honey. It takes a few seconds for meaning to filter through to his muddled brain. Light dawns and flickers somewhere above his shoulders. Jack chuckles softly, never once losing eye contact.

"He can't deduce you." He sighs dreamily. Licks his lips. Inhales deeply and thinks of honey.

Sherlock takes another step towards the pair. Something is definitely NOT RIGHT with _his John_. He circles, moving silently, a predatory feline. He surveys. Collects data. The data is inconclusive. Contradictory. Erroneous. Too many missing variables. Unacceptable. He approaches Jack from behind, looks over his shoulder and examines John's face. _His John_. "Who are you?" he hisses. Anger and suspicion leave his voice deep and gravelly, to most ears. But to John, the question rolls out from between those luscious lips, soft and smooth. John thinks of caramel. Hot. Creamy. Sweet. He sees the words slide over Jack's shoulder, wrap around his throat, caress his skin like a silk scarf, just brushing against the surface, leaving tingles in its wake. He opens his mouth, desperate for a taste. John can hardly breathe. Sherlock narrows in on John's bleary eyes. He looks drugged. Not himself. _At all_.

******WITHOUT WAITING FOR A REPLY, **SHERLOCK PUSHES JACK OUT OF THE WAY. John yelps in surprise and steps back, a reflex only. He'd never step back from Sherlock. Not on purpose. Sherlock takes him by the shoulders. Jack stands to the side watching and hums, disappointed now that the spell has been broken. Sherlock's eyes are full of concern. And something else. Sherlock envelops him, pulls him close and brings his lips against John's ear. When Sherlock whispers, warm breath caresses, sends shivers over sensitive skin. John hears soft, warm caramel. "Come. John. _Home_." John's toes curl in his boots.

TBC


	2. REFLECTION

~ 2 ~

REFLECTION

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**SHERLOCK LOCKS EYES WITH HIS REFLECTION.** Beyond and below the windowpane stretches an unmarred view of Baker Street. There is little to hold his attention outside which is irrelevant since he's not been looking. In any case, his eyes are blurred and his gaze is turned inward while his hands are clamped together tightly behind his back. This is a usual pose for thinking, rather conducive to prolonged bouts of introspection however tonight it is not sufficient. Frustration flares. "_Who is THAT MAN_?" He snaps off the question with such savagery that he nearly punctures his lip. As he speaks, pearly white incisors flash in the dim light and the resulting expulsion of breath leaves a circular patch of mist upon the windowpane but it clears away quickly. Desperate for a sign that he is still the smartest man in the neighbourhood, his mind latches onto the nearest source of data, and goes for a quick test run. _Rapid evaporation—internal ambient temperature approximately 27 degrees Celsius—external temperature… weather forecast predicted a high of 18 degrees—WRONG–as usual—Meteorology is not a legitimate science—a soft-science at best—a fortune-telling side-show at worst—best relegated to the carnival—actual external temperature 13 degrees—accelerated evaporation due to steep temperature gradient between internal and external temperatures—hmmm—windows cleaned 27 days ago—the temperature's risen by 2 degrees over the last 5 minutes__—obviously Mrs. Hudson's been messing with the thermostat__—__she'll be along any day now for another cleaning… _Sherlock, once again satisfied of his mental supremacy, turns his mind to the matter at hand. He reviews the disconcerting events from earlier that evening.

**USUALLY, JOHN DOESN'T ANSWER THESE KINDS OF QUESTIONS**. Not out loud. For the most part, he refrains from speaking (unless absolutely necessary) while Sherlock is cogitating—especially during _agitated_ cogitation. He is never certain if Sherlock means to speak aloud, if he is even aware that he does. He suspects not. There was a time, when he had (in ignorance) made that stupendous error and had interrupted Sherlock's stream of consciousness with an interjection or heaven forbid, an answer. But one did so at their own peril. Sherlock's scathing retorts cut with precision. The gentlest response he had received was a sharp, "Rhetorical question, John!" for his efforts. John doesn't need to be emotionally decimated more than ten or twelve times before he learns his lesson. He still bears scars from their earliest encounters.

Sherlock does wonders for one's self-esteem. John is a veritable rock of self-confidence. Really, his sense of self-efficacy is bursting through at the seams.

Now, he muses in silence, safely within the confines of his relatively meagre brain (Sherlock's words, not his). Tonight's encounter plays heavily in John's thoughts as he tries to recline with the appearance of ease in his favourite fireside chair. He is well aware of Sherlock's pique. It is rolling off him in waves. After a time, he too seeks out Sherlock's reflection but his intention is to gauge his roommate's current level of agitation. Whereas, Sherlock's manner suggests he is having a staring contest with himself (like a petulant feline). For what purposes, he does not dare to guess. Arrogance surely plays a strong part, of that he has no doubt.

**JOHN HAS NOTHING.** _No – thing_. Nothing is going on inside his brain. No voluntary thoughts, none that he'd willingly share with his best mate, at any rate. If (and when) Sherlock finally develops the ability to peer into John's mind, to finally catalogue his mental processes, content areas, to understand—and he has spent an inordinate amount of time either wishing for the ability (sentiment) or hours in clinical product development (futile)—he'll be appalled (probably) at the direction of John's thoughts (fixations) since meeting THAT MAN. Sherlock would argue that it was more akin to having THAT MAN _inflicted_ upon him—like an unwanted plague or an overly malicious form of corporal punishment especially when he learns the truth.

So he thinks about it inside his head for far too long before he actually decides it _needs_ to be said aloud. He has to force himself to open his eyes. They are so heavy. Still. "I don't know…" he muses, his voice raspy and rough. " But I _liked_ him." He sighs, remembering the humming sensation that had energized his skin. Just standing close to the man… well, he's never felt _that_ before.

Sherlock turns sharply, surprised by John's answer. Had he asked the question aloud? He can't be sure. He'd been about to snap off a cutting remark but he is brought up short by the dazed expression in John's eyes and the husky sound of his voice. He's been so distracted with his own thoughts that he's failed to see that the effects had lingered. _John. John. John._ The triple litany echoes through the halls of his Mind Palace, establishing the necessary anchor. He is aghast at what he sees. "_Still?_" He arrives at John's feet in three long strides. There are clear signs written all over John. How could he have missed them? He needs to pay more attention. Bending at the waist, he leans over John, at the foot of his favourite chair and takes a hold of his chin with his right hand. He forces John to look up at him by tilting his chin. As expected, John does not appreciate that.

"Piss off!" he growls; he doesn't appreciate it at all. The gesture makes him feel dominated, weak, out-of-control. None of which, make it onto John's top ten list of favourite emotions. John pulls his head back as far back as he can and tries to remove himself from Sherlock's grasp. Ever the persistent one, Sherlock holds on. Finally, John just bats his hand away. "Get off!" He is dead tired of Sherlock invading his person.

**"WHY JOHN?** I'm trying to get a closer look at your pupils." Sherlock remains standing at John's feet and from his expression, he is quite concerned.

"You… Stop grabbing my face." John explains. When Sherlock frowns in obvious confusion, he explains further. "I don't like it when you… forcefully grab my face." Sherlock doesn't move and shows no evidence of understanding. There are times when John is certain that Sherlock employs willful ignorance just so he doesn't have to adhere to social norms and now is one of those times. "It's rude, Sherlock. You're invading my personal… space bubble." This is by no means, anomalous behaviour. His flat mate's interpretation of personal boundaries has always been loose at best and non-existent for the rest of the time. It is merely John's reaction that is new. He is also reacting to Sherlock's close proximity and it is involuntary, startling and uncomfortable. He is genuinely starting to panic. He's noticed an unprecedented, rather distinctive physiological response to _a man_ that was previously associated with being in the presence of a near perfect female (one that was far out of his league). He thinks the sensation is almost like drowning in lust, as if you were trapped in a very small lift with a supermodel.

He's felt it before _unfortunately, _but more often in his youth, before he gained a fair amount of experience and a healthy dose of self-confidence in his sexuality. But this is unheard of. A physical reaction—**_that _**kind of physical reaction—resulting from the close proximity of two men—in little more than two hours? Unheard of. Un… un… unacceptable. But try as he might, he can't move a muscle. He is shocked into paralysis. Shocked by his body's unwelcomed response. To a man—a stranger at that—and to his mate, flat mate. Who is also his best mate, if he's being honest with himself.

**SO WHEN SHERLOCK LEANS FORWARD**, falls to his knees, and places his hands on the seat cushions on either side of his thighs he nearly leaps out of his skin. He nearly leaps out of the chair as well. If it were possible. He can only look, can only gaze as Sherlock scans his face. No doubt, reading his every fear and every thought as easily as the morning paper.

"Hmmm. Now, tell me truthfully, _John_." He narrows his eyes further. "**_Why_** do you like him?" John thinks he can feel Sherlock's heart thumping against his knees. It is distracting, as is the warmth emanating from his mate's body. John thinks he can almost feel that heat curl around his exposed flesh when Sherlock says his name. On the outside, John is quite still but his mind is well occupied. _Since when did the way Sherlock says my name get so… erotic? What the hell?_ John feels the skin of his chest and throat flush with heat.

John answers quickly, trying to cover up his discomfort. "I… I… I don't know. He was… friendly. Jesus, Sherlock, will you push off? You're doing it again." John is overheating under his fuzzy jumper. His subconscious has been toying with the idea that he should probably shed a couple of layers (for quite a long time) but he is unaccountably panicked when the thought floats to the forefront of his mind. He sucks in a nervous breath and tries to avoid Sherlock's eyes.

At that, Sherlock's eyebrows shoot up. "You didn't seem to mind when THAT MAN was invading your personal space bubble." He pitches his voice extra low, extra sultry but only by accident. He leans forward so that he is eye-to-eye with John, forces him to look. "In fact, you exhibited clear signs of sexual arousal John. If I didn't know any better, I'd say you weren't quite as _not-gay_ as you claim to be." Sherlock smirks, just slightly but it is enough for John to see.

**THAT RUFFLES JOHN'S FEATHERS**. He sputters, for a full minute before he can form a defense. "I… I don't know what that was. It wasn't a normal situation. I have no idea… what… I have no idea what he did but he did something—"

Having achieved the desired effect, Sherlock cuts John off mid-ramble. "You are correct, John. It was not normal. There was something very not right about THAT MAN." Sherlock angles his head, a sure sign he is formulating an array of possible theories and analyzing their probabilities based on current data. He frowns as all attempts are immediately derailed due to insufficient data. He needs more. Suddenly, John's initial words rise to the forefront of Sherlock's mind. "Tell me again John. **_Why_** did you like him?" He sounds suspicious. "This time use more adjectives, will you?" He adds after a quick beat. "**_Think John_**_!"_ Clearly frustrated, he squints and wishes once again that he could just read John's mind or simply climb inside. It would be so much easier. Verbal interchange is so… ineffective. Rather than holding onto that superfluous fantasy, he instead redirects his entire, quite formidable arsenal of sensory receptors towards John with such intensity that John feels Sherlock's eyes pierce his very soul.

**UNDER THE WEIGHT OF SHERLOCK'S RAZOR-SHARP GAZE**, John swallows reflexively. His mouth flaps open like a gasping guppy but when nothing comes out he closes it again. Instead, he gives it some thought. With anyone else, he'd feel the need to fill the emptiness with meaningless words, for politeness sake but not with Sherlock. He is immune to such things. Refreshing really. He searches his weary mind for an answer but he comes up with nothing. Nothing satisfactory that is. He looks away, off to the left where recent memories can be found. He shrugs and finds himself at a complete loss. "I just don't know…" His words trail off, uncertainty lays heavy and uncomfortable on his tongue. "He… smelled good." When finally he meets Sherlock's gaze, he sees something unfamiliar there.

"Mmmm. I see." He doesn't and they both know it. He stands up abruptly and announces, "I'm going out, John."

"Ah. Do you want me to come with you?" John offers but he is hesitant and less than enthusiastic. He could do with a cuppa and a long hot shower. Maybe a nice wank.

"No. You should stay home, John. You don't look well. Perhaps you should get some sleep?" Sherlock offers hopefully. He really doesn't want John to come with him. He really doesn't want John out of his sight either. But more to the point, he doesn't want John anywhere near THAT MAN. And that is exactly where Sherlock is headed.

TBC


	3. RELIEVED

~ 3 ~

RELIEVED

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**"GOOD EVENING, MR. ROBERTSON.** I trust you are still enjoying the perks of your wife's recent incarceration?" Sherlock leans against the front desk, portraying a demeanor of casualness that is far from his true internal state of being. He is positively buzzing.

"Oh, yes Mr. Holmes! That I am. Still alive and kicking. I'd say that's quite enjoyable." Mr. Robertson has a smile that can brighten a room. It hasn't always been that way, certainly not prior to his wife's timely arrest.

Unbeknownst to him, Mr. Robertson had been husband number five. As it turns out, Mrs. Robertson had spent the better part of the last two decades cultivating a rather nasty case of serial widowhood rivalling that of the female Mantis religiosa. She had a particular penchant towards wealthy landowners and an aptitude for arranging near undetectable 'accidents' for her beloved husbands. _Near_ undetectable—that is before Sherlock got involved. He'd been on the trail of a serial murderer, on behalf of New Scotland Yard, in particular, Detective Inspector Lestrade and the trail led him directly to her. She'd changed her name several times over the years and moved around a fair bit but for Sherlock that amounted to mere child's play. However, for Mr. Robertson it meant his life, and his happiness as it turns out. He is a much happier man now that his divorce has been finalized and the ex-Mrs. Robertson is behind bars. He is also, as you can imagine, eternally grateful to Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

Mr. Robertson makes his way around the counter and leads Sherlock to his private office. He closes the door firmly behind them. "What can I do for you, Mr. Holmes?" His eyes are still sparkling but his voice is far more serious now that they are alone.

"I need some information about a guest staying at your hotel."

Mr. Robertson doesn't hesitate. "Of course. Do you have a name?"

"No, but he's in the lounge right now. I wonder if…"

"Say no more." Mr. Robertson motions for Sherlock to move into the chair beside his and then brings up the live feed from the CCTV cameras positioned around the hotel. "Which one is he?"

Sherlock leans forward and points at the screen. "_Him_." He doesn't even attempt to keep the vitriol from his voice. Mr. Robertson is one of _his people_, after all.

"Ah. He's got a reputation…" he begins.

"Tell me." Sherlock gets right to the point.

Mr. Robertson leans back in his chair and takes up a thinking pose. "He's from Cardiff. Here on a business trip. A week of meetings. His company's head office, I think. Don't know the name of the company but I suspect it's a government agency. Too hush hush. He's been charming my staff and I mean _all of my staff_. Charming the pants off of them, I suspect. Men and women. He doesn't seem to care."

Sherlock harrumphs. "Yes, he does that," he mutters quietly. "Which room? I need a look around."

"Yes, of course. Mr. Holmes. Anything for you." He brings up the applicable guest registration entry on his computer. "Room 226. Let me get you the key." He reaches into his desk and brings out the master key. He smiles pointedly at Sherlock when he places it in his hand. He'd do anything for this man. He saved his life. In more ways than one. And if he wants into this man's room then there has to be a good reason. That is good enough for him.

Sherlock smiles, uncharacteristically polite and gives him a slight nod. "Thank you." He likes Mr. Robertson. He is honest, blunt and quite clever for an ordinary person.

**JACK SITS SLUMPED OVER THE HOTEL BAR**, nursing a chilly non-alcoholic beverage. It's been a long, boring day. His eyes scan the thin crowd with no particular aim in mind while he draws random patterns on the sweaty walls of his cocktail glass. He's feeling dejected and is actively dreading tomorrow, and the next day and the day after that. He's definitely had worse days. He's been straight out tortured—medieval style—by a twisted masochistic bastard, once or twice. He knows this. But his internal monologue is a full chorus of "woe to me" and "what did I ever do to deserve this?" and "please goddess, let it end."

The day was long.

The meetings were endless.

He sat, he listened, and he answered exactly four questions all day. At lunch, he ate a sandwich (white bread, crustless, fake meat, fake cheese and questionable lettuce) and a ridiculously healthy bowl of soup not worth the bowl it was served in. It was a paper bowl.

If he drank (_in public_), he would, copious amounts, right now, just to block out the memory of today and the knowledge that he'll be faced with the same mind-numbing boredom tomorrow. Today, he made eye-contact with seven people, received a smile in return for his exactly five times and the bulk of those were from the poor miserable bastards who had to present their annual reports at one meeting or another.

There were several short breaks scattered throughout the day during which he strolled the halls. People—_workers_— ran to and fro, busy little worker bees, frantic and fearful. None of them even lifted their eyes from the floor. _What kind of life is this?_ He imagines their fear is courtesy of Ms. Yvonne Hartman, Director of Torchwood One, resident representative for _All That is Evil and Unholy._ If he had to work here, he'd probably kill himself on a daily basis just to break the monotony. It's times like these, that he curses his immortality. To be stuck in this cycle of torment—well that's his idea of purgatory—if he believed in that sort of thing.

He's seriously considering switching to whisky when another guest catches his eye. He smiles back but his hearts just not in it. She doesn't take the hint. She's been staring at him for the last ten minutes or so and she's decided to make her move. "You look like you've had a terrible day?" She makes it sound like a question because she knows she has a better chance of starting a conversation with him if she asks a question. She works in Marketing. She analyzes human behaviour for a cutthroat firm of flesh eating sharks. Marketing—it may be the evil sibling of Psychology but it comes in handy more often than not. She picks up her drink and her handbag and then saunters over to the bar, taking a seat right next to Jack. She extends her hand and gives him her best come-hither smile "I'm Alyson. It's a pleasure."

He returns the smile and takes the hand in his. "Nice to meet you, Alyson. I'm Jack." He goes back to sipping his drink and his eyes blur a bit as he thinks of Ianto. He wonders what he's doing. _The Macarena? Maybe the Chicken Dance?_ He likes the Chicken Dance. He's a bit miffed that he's missing the opportunity to indulge in one of his guilty pleasures. Instead, he's got to figure out a nice way to tell this lady he's not interested. He takes out his mobile and checks for messages. There aren't any so he opens up a new message and sends a quick hello to his lover.

She fumes. This guy is obviously married. He's looking longingly at his phone like he's waiting desperately for a few words of love from his mate. She takes a drink and tries to come to terms with the fact that she'll be sleeping alone tonight, _again_. "You look like you're missing your wife." She sounds a little wistful.

Jack looks up from the keypad and tries to recall what she said. "My… wife? Oh, ya . My wife." He smirks. Ianto'd _love_ that. Or not. "Yes, I really do… miss my wife." _I wish he was here. I wish I was there. I wish we were anywhere but here._ "I hate it when we're apart." Now, he sounds wistful and all of a sudden, she's touched. When he gets a reply from Ianto, he grins, and it's breathtaking.

"That's nice." She sighs and takes another drink.

**JOHN LETS HIS CLOTHING DROP TO THE FLOOR**. He stands in front of the mirror and stares at his reflection. He is tired, so very tired. They've been going full throttle for days. He's barely slept or eaten. He can't remember the last time he brushed his teeth. Then they met that man. They'd been on their way home. Sherlock had been about to hail a taxi when that man had stepped into their path.

John can't help but remember. As his eyes close, he thinks he can see that man—_Jack,_ he thinks—standing in front of him, close enough to touch. He leans forward and his hands splay on the countertop. Now that he remembers, he thinks he can smell him too and that just makes his stomach roil. It also makes him groan just a little too loudly. _Good thing Sherlock's not here… oh, god why did I have to bring him into this? _Just the thought of the two of them and the possibility of both of them standing so close makes his skin heat up.

He hangs his head. The fantasy starts to take shape and John forgets how tired he is. He thinks back to the street. He can feel Jack standing in front of him and Sherlock standing behind him. They're so close, so close he could smell them both, feel their heat. Behind him, he feels Sherlock's coat blowing in the wind. It brushes against the back of his legs. He shivers when Sherlock's hot breath washes over the back of his neck. Maybe Sherlock would touch him through his coat, just a light stroke. To let him know he's there.

"Oh for fuck's sake," John swears and snaps out of it. Whatever 'it' was. He can't figure out why that scenario would turn him on. And he is. Turned on. He's so hard, it hurts. He needs release more than anything. So he steps into the shower and turns the temperature up as high as he can stand. He lets the pulsing spray beat down onto his shoulders and back and some of the tension eases from his shoulders. It does nothing for the tension down below. John soaps himself up and his hand lingers. He starts to stroke but he doesn't tease or prolong the inevitable. He doesn't want to fantasize. He just wants to clear his head, to make this incessant erection go away. But he can't stop the images from coming. His mind automatically supplies a target for his arousal. That's what he usually does. He renders an image of someone sexy and then he imagines it's their hand stroking or their mouth sucking him down. This time, his mind supplies him with a head of dark curly hair and plump pink lips and it goes on and adds a tall svelte form. Only it's a him not a her. By this point, he can't stop, doesn't want to, and he can't stop the image either. He has to grab the wall as he comes because he can barely keep his feet. He hasn't come this hard in god knows how long. Certainly not by himself. _Fuck._ He's just wanked to the image of his flat mate. He leans against the wall until the water goes cold and then he finally gets out.

John does not feel like himself. And that does not sit well.

TBC


	4. DISCOVERED

~4~

DISCOVERED

* * *

**WHILE JACK IS DOWNSTAIRS IN THE BAR,** Sherlock slips into his room. At first, he just stands by the door and let's his eyes and mind survey the room. He observes everything he can in the main room and then moves onto Jack's belongings. He sees something Ianto gave him. It's sitting on the dresser. _A tie, relatively new, pure silk, handmade, rolled up… with precision. Not by this man. By his lover—a wife—girlfriend—no, boyfriend? A tie and a tie clip… obviously new… rarely worn… expensive… one of a kind… a gift… interesting… long-term lover, then. _

He moves into the bathroom. Something rattles against the back of the door when he swings it inwards. It's a leather strop. _He uses an old-fashioned straight razor._ He peers into his shaving kit and sees a strange assortment of antique (_pearl handled_ _razor… original… ivory comb… hand carved_) and modern (_nylon bag… impressive strength-to-weight ratio… with interwoven ripstop reinforcement threads… expensive… military grade… shave gel… sable haired brush… copious hair products…vain…_) punctuated by an unknown high-tech device _(Purpose? Unknown.)._

_Young—middle aged—senior citizen—ex-military—W.W. … One? What the hell? He's an old, youngish man, who's… conservative and liberal… very liberal… judging from his under pants…_ _No pyjamas… enjoys nudity…_ _or he's_ _forgetful… unlikely_.

He inspects the closet. _All variations on a theme… a uniform… lube in the pocket… definitely ex-military… uniform fetish… _

Then, he realizes, something's missing. _No cologne… why did John say he smelled good? Where is his cologne? _Sherlock examines the bed. Sniffs the pillow. It does smell good. _What is that… scent? It's like a…_ His mind immediately starts searching through its olfactory catalogue for a similar scent, something he's encountered before—on a case? Or an experiment? He's sorting through his memories, discarding the irrelevant, the impossible, the highly improbable and finally he's confronted with an entry that makes him hesitate. Time stands still. His mind speeds up. _It was a case… a scientist was developing a perfume intended for mass production… he'd included a sex hormone… he wanted to develop a subtle form of mind-control. He wanted to secure the affections of his wayward wife… A sex hormone. But undiluted._

Sherlock is alerted to the slight increase in his heart rate, and breathing, and… physiological arousal. _Ahem…_ he steps back from the bed. He frowns, a bit disgusted with himself for shying away from the challenge.

What is he frightened of?

Because he is.

_Frightened_.

He'd know that, if he were honest with himself (about himself).

But he rarely is.

He skims through the single file folder that lies upon the side table.

_Boring_.

Also… _it doesn't make any sense._

Not to Sherlock and that really didn't sit well. He pulls a pen out of his pocket; the one John gave him at the crime scene only yesterday. He circles a typo and writes the correction in the margin. He smiles rather mischievously. He is having… fun. So he writes a little message on the outside of the brown file folder, too. Just a quick hello.

**_Catch you later. _**

_O O  
\_/_

He adds a smiley face, because he can. He leaves the file folder and its contents in the middle of the bed. It sends a very succinct message: _I can get to you_.

It would do for now. At least, he has two new pieces of data to work with. A name: _Captain Jack Harkness_. An organization: _Torchwood_. He'll do some research next and then decide on the best course of action once he has more data.

Now, _back to John_.

**JACK HAS HIS HEAD BURIED** in his phone so he almost misses his floor. He pauses just outside the lift and manages to get his thumbs to cooperate enough so he can type his reply to Ianto.

.

**[Having a weird night. Today was horrible. Worse than being flayed. Jack]**

**[Jack, you know I don't like it when you joke about dying. Ianto]**

**[I miss you. Sorry (about the flaying). Jack]**

**[I miss you too. Stop it (with the flaying). Ianto]**

**.**

**JACK SMILES A BIT WISTFULLY AT THAT**. He can almost hear Ianto's sarcastic retort and he misses the sound of that voice. He sighs and his smile transforms into a frown at the thought of what he's missed. As it turns out, Ianto did partake of the Chicken Dance (against his will—he _swears_). Jack is unreasonably devastated but there's nothing to be done. He tucks his phone into his coat pocket and considers downloading the Chicken Dance song on his laptop. He's almost reached his room when he passes Sherlock in the hall. Sherlock smirks and there's a glitter in his eye. Jack notices him (the package: lips, eyes, hair and oh my… _that coat_) and feels a bit of déjà vu but he's tired and all he wants is to get his clothes off and to have the longest, hottest shower available this side of the Orion Nebula.

* * *

**SHERLOCK SLIPS IN THE FRONT DOOR** and takes the stairs two by two. He's surprisingly quiet though and manages to startle John when he throws the door open. John spins around and their eyes lock for a moment (_John is… within acceptable limits_) before Sherlock turns. He hangs his coat on the hook and toes off his shoes in silence, still re-running tonight's events. Sneaking into THAT MAN'S (he doesn't want to use his name—it doesn't adequately convey his disdain) room undetected was a heady experience and he's not ready to let the sensation go. By the time he turns, John has made his way into the kitchen. Sherlock can hear the kettle being filled and then the ritual of tea begins. He approaches the kitchen but stops at the threshold and observes more closely.

John's been pacing and fuming since he peeled himself off of the shower wall. Sherlock can see he's under strain. It's obvious he's been fretting, probably pacing. His face is heavily lined, creased between his eyes. So, it's serious then. John's silence is also significant. He usually greets Sherlock. Even if Sherlock doesn't reply, he still notices that John does. _This silence is significant and indicates—what? Anger? Possibly, anger. But at whom? Me? No. Wait, maybe. Why?_

John can't stop fidgeting. His skin is burning under the weight of Sherlock's scrutiny. He was so deep in thought (_fretting—self-recrimination—agony—embarrassment—gut clenching need_) that he didn't hear Sherlock coming up the stairs and was yanked out of his internal torment when the door was flung open. He knows that he's acting nervous around Sherlock but he can't help it. He knows that Sherlock will notice, too. There's no help for it.

Even so, when Sherlock tries to get a closer look at John (_three centimetres is an optimal distance_) he jumps out of his skin. John blushes and hates himself for it. His face twists, muscles tense under skin, brows crease, jaw grinds together, cheeks redden and Sherlock reads it. "You're _angry_." He squints. "At… me? No. Hmmm. Yourself?" He frowns and takes a step closer—which is almost impossible. "_Why_, John?"

John stiffens up his already tense—_everything—_and then snaps at Sherlock, "Never mind. Not important." Then too quickly for Sherlock to respond he demands, "Where did you go then?" John sounds steely; he's struggling to hold back a shout, or worse. Sherlock curses himself again; he's obviously missed something important. _There's always something_.

Sherlock doesn't reply to John's question. He won't waste his words, not when he's unsure.

"You went to find him didn't you?" John demands.

Sherlock's eyes widen slightly and it's enough to confirm John's suspicion.

"Where did you find him?" Because it's obvious that he did, find him. Sherlock looks too pleased with himself to have failed. John can tell it was a good hunt.

He straightens. He's on surer ground now so he answers, "At his hotel."

John quirks his left brow and holds back a smirk. He's impressed. He's a lost cause—_he knows_. He shakes his head and takes a deep breath. "What did you find out?" John's impatient. "Come on. Just tell me, already."

"His name is Captain Jack Harkness."

"Already knew that." John says dismissively.

Sherlock takes a step and his hands clench into fists. "No, you didn't!"

"Yes. _I did_."

"How did you?" Sherlock forces the words out.

"He told me."

"He told you?" Sherlock spins and makes a sound that tells John he's about to shout. Or shoot something. John's pretty sure that Sherlock hasn't discovered his gun's newest hiding place (it's just a matter of time though). The wall is safe –for now.

John flinches and Sherlock has his answer. "When?" he says through gritted teeth.

"When we were…" John blushes as the images rush back into his mind's eye. He clears his throat, which he knows, is a dead giveaway. Can't be helped. "When we were standing there and you went off in a huff."

"I did **_not_** go off in a huff."

"Yes, you bloody did." John's on solid footing here and it makes him feel a bit closer to normal.

"Hmm." That's a close as Sherlock ever gets to admitting he's wrong. "What else did he tell you?" he asks.

"Nothing." John admits quietly.

"Hmm." Sherlock flops down onto the sofa face-up and takes up a thinking pose. After a moment he asks, "Do you know what Torchwood is?"

Johns thinks back and says, "I… I've heard of it." But he can't remember where so he adds, "I'm not sure though. What is it?"

"I'm not sure." Sherlock has a theory but to prove it he'd need to call his brother and that's not on the agenda for today. So, instead he returns his attention back onto John and asks, "Did you have a good shower John?"

John gulps, noticeably. "Er… yes, fine. Thanks." He stills and starts praying for a reprieve that'll never come.

Sherlock shoots him a meaningful look; it comes with a raised brow and an impish smirk. "It appears that you've been masturbating, John but you certainly don't look any more relaxed. You might want to reconsider your technique."

John starts sinking into the seat cushions and wills himself elsewhere. He hasn't mastered that technique either so no luck there.

* * *

**TBC**

**Thanks for reading. And for adding the story to your favlists. I'd love to hear what you think.**

**one-blue-eye**


	5. OBSTRUCTED

~5~

OBSTRUCTED

* * *

**JACK REACHES OUT** and picks up the file folder. His eyes devour those three little words and he shouts, "Son of a bitch!" louder than is strictly necessary, considering he's alone. He is outraged by this invasion of privacy but what really gets his goat is the arrogant little happy face that hangs there mocking him.

He hasn't even opened the file yet. In fact, he's dreading it. It's a breach of security that he's made possible; he's left the file in his room. He took it from the last meeting and he shouldn't have. It's not top-level stuff or anything but its contents will raise more questions than he wants to answer. Only of course, if it were to fall into the wrong hands. The chances of that happening were slim to none—yesterday. Today, he has to readjust his risk assessment to reflect the evidence he holds in his grumpy little hands because things have definitely changed. It makes his blood boil.

He opens the folder with gritted teeth. He's not sure what to expect. He scans the page and his teeth click together when he sees it. "He took the time to correct a typo? Who the hell _is_ this guy?" He knows it's a guy, he's sure it is and he'd wager exactly which guy it is too. "That tall, lanky fellow… it has to be," he mutters, as he paces an angry line into the plush speckled carpet.

He considers calling the Manager to complain but that's too embarrassing, besides his pride is on the line. He's the head of Torchwood Three for Christ's sake. In the end, he bites the bullet and requests a change of rooms. "Another floor, another wing," he insists.

In the new room, he sets up a camera overlooking the door and has the feed sent to his laptop. It's voice and motion activated and it makes him feel a little more secure as he sets out for another day of soul-sucking meetings. Just two more days to go and he gets his life back.

**SHERLOCK'S QUITE DISAPPOINTED **when Jack doesn't notice him. He's paced the lobby (as patiently as he could) for a full twenty minutes before Jack makes an appearance. He's obviously late because he jogs through the main doors but he doesn't take a taxi. _Cheap, not that late or passionately hates being driven by incompetent drivers._ Sherlock can empathize. He follows him to the nearest Tube Station, stands a mere twenty paces away on the platform, rides in the same car, gets off a few steps behind and follows him to the tower at Canary Wharf. The only concession Sherlock makes is walking on the opposite side of the street for the last few blocks.

He watches as Jack drags his feet across the threshold of the pretentious, towering monstrosity made of glass and steel. It's a pathetic attempt to conquer nature and a symbol of some 'entity's' accumulation of power and wealth. It's also a bit phallic. Sherlock hates it with every fiber of his being. He scans the streets surrounding the tower and he's gratified when he spots one of his Homeless Network at the next corner. He's a bundle of tattered rags and discarded clothing but he has a smile on his face just the same. He's elderly, he looks tired and the cold is taking its toll. Sherlock drops a fifty in his cup, which would usually be enough for quite an extensive favour, but the old man is shivering so Sherlock insists on sharing breakfast at a nearby shop.

He leaves his ally with a photograph, a description and instructions to text him when Jack departs. Sherlock's curiosity gets the better of him and he decides to test his mettle against the collective incompetence of the fleet of security personnel stationed at the entrance of the obscenity called Torchwood Tower. He flashes Mycroft's government identification; it grants him top-level security clearance and after three and half minutes of scowling and stabbing at a keyboard he gets a visitor's pass pinned to his coat. He's smug and fails to keep it to himself. In his mind, it's only fitting that he acts like a pompous snob, especially since he's using Mycroft's ID. He gets as far as the third floor before he starts getting texts from Mycroft. At first, it's the same old thing and he pays them little heed.

**[What are you up to? MH]**

He's finally gotten a peek at something unexpected when his phone starts ringing. He rejects the calls and tries to get a closer look. It's some kind of experiment and he's never seen technology like this before. It reminds him of the device he found in THAT MAN'S toiletry bag. He couldn't identify that technology either. Mycroft resumes texting and Sherlock notices a change in tone.

**[You must get out of there IMMEDIATELY. You are in danger. MH]**

Sherlock finally answers and he's not above being snippy.

**[Do relax, brother dear, you are just inspecting the premises. SH]**

Mycroft replies immediately and it's not what Sherlock's been expecting.

**[I cannot protect you in there. You must get out. If you are captured, you will DISSAPEAR. MH]**

**[Come now Mycroft, aren't they under your thumb? SH]**

**[No. GET OUT NOW. Please. MH]**

Sherlock's shocked by Mycroft's use of the word 'please' so he leaves immediately, by the shortest route possible. It's not that Mycroft isn't polite, it's just that he never mixes his full caps with a please and he certainly doesn't mix his full caps with an admission that his power is limited. It's unnerving. Sherlock decides that a response is in order but he's loathe to apologize. Sherlock feels it's his right to steal his brother's ID whenever he's annoying and that's not about to change. So he thanks him for the concern instead.

**[Your interruption was untimely. It was just getting interesting. However, thank you for your advice. SH]**

In the interests of expediency, Sherlock takes a taxi back to the hotel and he's a little surprised to find Mr. Robertson waiting for him in the lobby when he gets there.

Sherlock greets him with, "You were expecting me."

Mr. Robertson smiles and says, "Of course." His snappy reply earns him a smirk. "He's changed rooms."

"I thought he might." Sherlock's glad it's Mr. Robertson's hotel. He's a good ally. The master key is placed in his hand before he can say another word and that makes Sherlock smile even wider. It's a smile that's usually reserved for John but it's been well earned.

"One floor up. Room 364. East side of the building." Sherlock nods and files the information away.

Sherlock's covering all of his bases so he asks, "Text me if he shows up?"

Clearly, Mr. Robertson's enjoying himself because he replies, "Absolutely," and then he sends Sherlock a playful wink.

TBC


	6. INFILTRATED

~6~

INFILTRATED

* * *

**THE FIRST THING** he finds is a tiny spy camera affixed to the ceiling overlooking the door. He reaches up, being sure to smile widely into the lens and then plucks it out of its mount. He pockets it and then checks the room for additional security. He searches for Jack's computer but finds nothing obvious. He thinks there surely must be one. Otherwise, where would the video feed get sent to? He comes up with nothing in the main room and nothing in the adjoining bathroom so he goes directly to the in-room safe.

"Hmmm… ExecuSafe," he says, through a grin. _I love these electronic hotel safes—so much fun—a newer model—the Magna 500. _He mutters aloud, "Obvious choice really_." Standard telephone keypad—raised buttons—heavy fingerprint deposit though—thank you very much. Four or six digit code. _

_First number is obviously a four [i-h-g], the second, most likely a two [a-b-c]_, _a six [m-n-o]—an eight [t-u-v] but in which order? _

Sherlock's eyes sparkle and he rubs his hands together in anticipation. His eyes scan the room, cataloguing every item within range of the wall safe._ He'd stand here, _he thinks, _pause, think of his code, look around. Where do his eyes settle? Something familiar. Something informal. First names. Birthday. Favorite color. Favorite person. Who or what does he think of? Home? Cardiff. Wales. Welsh. _Sherlock spots a miniature photo frame by the bedside. He sees:_ a young man, office worker, neat, tidy, handsome, smiling, happy, arm around THAT MAN. Definitely the boyfriend. Definitely Welsh. _

_4 [i] 2 [a] 6 [n] – too short – 4 [i] 8 [v] 2 [a] 6 [n] – POSSIBLE – _Sherlock types in the four digit code and immediately receives an error code. _Six digits then_.

He tries again.

_4 [h] 2 [a] 6 [m] 6 [m] 8 [u] – NO – 4 [g] 2 [a] 8 [v] 6 [o] 6 [n] – POSSIBLE – _Sherlock types in the six digit code and once again receives an error code. There's only one name left that he hasn't tried._ So obvious. Too obvious. _That's why he didn't try it first._ 4 [i] 2 [a] 6 [n] 8 [t] 6 [o] – __**CLICK**__._

He mumbles, "Secret government agency my…"and he trails off and rolls his eyes instead of completing his sentence because cursing is rarely called for. He steps to the side, well out of range of any projectile weaponry that might be waiting to greet him within confines of the hotel safe. He's developed a healthy respect for booby-traps thanks to The Woman. An errant thought peaks around the corner of a minimum-security wing inside his Mind Palace and he wonders if THAT MAN and The Woman would get along. He resolutely dismisses the thought, as it is both irrelevant and uncomfortably sentimental. It manages to scamper back to where it came from, avoiding permanent deletion, at least for the time being. The door swings open harmlessly and within he finds Jack's laptop, which has been plugged into the internal power outlet. _Safe—well mostly safe and charging—handy feature that._

He turns it on. _No password. Overconfident or lazy_. _Most likely used for personal_ _purposes then_.

He searches for the security program attached to the web-camera. It's easily accessible. He deletes the video layer. He's been removed from any and all hotel surveillance and he's not going to tempt fate by allowing THAT MAN access to video footage of him breaking into his room. He decides the audio has to stay though. It's pure vanity and a hint of narcissistic pleasure that eggs him on. He has plans and he wants to leave a message.

After he's taken care of the video feed, Sherlock goes directly to the picture library. He thinks about his sentries and just to be safe, he checks his phone. There aren't any messages so he returns his attention to the computer. He's surprised by what he finds in the picture library. "Interesting," he muses aloud. "That's quite a selection of CCTV footage. Some kind of underground…" Sherlock scrutinizes the images but stops his verbal narration while he absorbs everything he can from the screen-shots. "It appears that most of these are screen-shots taken from CCTV footage. That's a bit creepy. Even for you. They sell cameras, you know. You've got quite a selection to choose from. In fact, if you look very carefully at your phone you'll probably find that it has a rather respectable camera. And judging from your frankly alarming lack of organizational skills, I think you might find managing two different devices a challenge. I'd stick with the camera phone if I were you. Less taxing for your feeble little brain."

"Well, I'm absolutely parched. I think I'll just order up a little snack. I hear they have really good desserts at this hotel. Sherlock reaches for the hotel phone and presses zero for room service. "Yes. Room 364. Send up a pot of tea and a selection of your finest desserts." Pause. "Yes. Chocolate's fine." He lets the receiver drop into the cradle with a rather loud rattle.

"While we're waiting, I think I'll just see what else you've got on here." He scans through the next group of photos and notices that they are all of the same four people. "You're in so few of these—which is to be expected I suppose, if you're the one taking the photos—but you're not. You're watching. Probably from somewhere close. Your office. On another floor. High up. You're not really a _part_ of the group are you? Let's see… A doctor. A scientist. An agent. Obviously, the boyfriend. You're the leader. Is it lonely at the top? I imagine it is. Always the outsider."

A few pieces of data slip into place and Sherlock has a moment of realization. "**_Oh. I see._** You don't want them to know you have these photographs. Why? You're embarrassed. Maybe you like them more than they like you. That could explain why they won't pose for a picture with you. Maybe you never ask. Lack of self-confidence? Trust issues." Then Sherlock mutters, "_Surprising, considering your recent behaviour,"_ rather more to himself than to Jack. "Maybe, you have nothing in common with them—outside of work. They seem friendly enough. _They_ share something. That's obvious. Something you don't understand. You don't belong. You're different. And you care. You care too much, it seems. Ahh… and it hurts. Ego, secret photo collection."

Sherlock stands up and walks over to the closet. He runs his hands over the smooth, well-worn fabrics, over the numerous repairs and adds, "You don't dress like them either. Everything you own is anachronistic." _Except for that suspiciously advanced device in the bathroom,_ he thinks. "You're out of place. An irregularity. It looks like you were born in the wrong Century. You don't fit in. Anywhere." He sighs, almost feels sorry for him, almost feels a kinship. Almost. "It's a pity you're not here. One look at your face and I'd know if I were correct." He's interrupted by three sturdy knocks at the door.

He swings the door open and puts on an appropriate mask. "Excellent timing! Come in. Put it just there, would you?"

"Yes, sir." The boy places the tray on the table indicated and then straightens. He smiles politely and then asks, "Will there be anything else sir?"

Sherlock places a decent sized tip in his hand and then thanks him, "No. That's fine. Thank you." He escorts him to the door and then returns to the table to make the tea. He lifts the lid off of the tray and makes an appreciative sound. "Hmmm. Good choice. I think I'll have a piece." Sherlock makes a good deal of noise so Jack will hear it on the recording. He's playing a part, the confident adversary and it needs to look and sound good. Not too far of a stretch by any means but he's trying to make a point.

The cake's really quite good and so is the tea. Sherlock smiles, thinking John will be so pleased that he's ordered room service and actually eaten something. Cake counts. _It's food. _

**JACK IS LIVID,** his hands are shaking and his heart's pounding so hard he struggles to open the security program. He keeps clicking on the wrong button and pressing the wrong keys. It takes twice as long as it usually does to bring up the video file. After another long day of politics and bureaucracy, he was looking forward to a relaxing shower and some pay per view. He was not expecting to find his laptop and the mini-surveillance camera sitting on his bed when he came in the room. Nothing else was out of place. Well, except for the room service tray sitting on the table.

He tries to bring up the video footage but there isn't any. It's obviously been deleted. He finds an audio file though so he clicks on that instead. The deep baritone voice is warm and captivating. Jack sits up against the headboard and prepares to listen to the intruder.

Jack listens intently as his intruder rummages around his room, searching for his computer no doubt. He hears mumbles and snippy comments but nothing clear at first. Until he breaks into the safe that is. Then, the intruder starts talking to him. There's no other way to say it. He's actually speaking to him. As if, they're having a nice little chat.

He can hear Sherlock pick up the miniature frame sitting by his bedside. He reaches over and checks the photo but finds no signs of damage. The baritone comments, "Hmmm. I'm surprised this isn't a screen-shot too." He hears a rustling of paper as the photo is reassembled and then set back where it was found. Jack finds this particular invasion of his privacy more difficult to bear, more personal somehow, and it riles him.

"Does he even know you have it? Does he know you keep it by your bedside? I highly doubt it. Too embarrassed to tell him?" Sherlock sounds mocking, cruel and Jack thinks, _fuck you, what do you know?_ Sherlock presses on. "Or maybe your relationship isn't as rock solid as it appears." Jack's eyes slide closed and he gulps. "Do you even call him your boyfriend? I wonder. I bet you don't. I bet you've never even told him that you love him."

Jack's just about had enough. He wants to disregard everything this lunatic's said but he flinches, thinking about his obvious cowardice when it comes to relationships.

"I'll even bet that he has. You are the coward not him. I'm surprised he's still with you. He's quite handsome. He could do better, I'm sure." Sherlock's been building up to an angry climax and his words are hard and biting. He's acting irrationally but he can't seem to stop. He wants to hurt this intruder—_THAT MAN_. He wants to make him _go away_, _forever_.

Jack's about ready to turn off the recording, his heart can't take any more but he hears a familiar yet muffled buzzing and it makes him pause.

**SHERLOCK CHECKS HIS PHONE** and he smiles. He says, "Oh, that's you. You've just left Torchwood," which makes Jack fume because this is so much more than a security leak. "Well," Sherlock adds, "that's my cue. Thanks for the tea. It was lovely. I'll leave the rest of the cake for you. Don't worry, I haven't tampered with it." There's a significant pause as Sherlock shuts down the computer and places it and the camera on the bed. Then he says, "Oh, one last thing. Stay away from my friends and I'll stay away from yours." Sherlock stands up and prepares to leave. He can't help himself so he adds, "Give my love to Ianto. Laters!"

TBC


	7. UNAVOIDABLE

~7~

AVOIDANCE

* * *

**JACK IS NUMB.** Sherlock's deductions hit a little too close to home. The obnoxious bastard took one look at his laptop and his closet and managed to reveal some of his deepest, darkest secrets. Too many, too true. And he made it seem so easy, so obvious. He's only ever met one other person who knew that much about him. He was a telepathic alien. A very nosey, very old, telepathic alien.

He sits, propped up against the headboard of his hotel bed, crisp white sheets pushed down past his knees. His hand is still wrapped around his phone. He's been gripping it madly for at least an hour. He wants to call Ianto—wants some comfort—but what on Earth could he say? _Some tall, skinny guy broke into my room, looked through my stuff and figured out some of my most painful, and previously thought, well hidden secrets. Oh, and he left me a recording too. Just to be a dick_. Jack couldn't bring himself to say these things aloud in the privacy of his own room, never mind say them to Ianto. The back of his head bangs against the wall, thumping loudly enough to irritate the guest in the next room. He takes another drink, empties the little bottle in two swallows. After he recaps the lid, he tosses it onto the steadily growing pile of empties on Ianto's side of the bed. It's not the other side of the bed any more, he realizes, it's _Ianto's_ side. He can't remember when that changed. All he knows, is that it has.

Several hours pass before Jack works up an adequate level of certainty. He types a simple message, one that he means. He says, _I miss you_. He hits send and then holds the phone to his chest until he gets a reply.

**SHERLOCK IS SURPRISED** by how much he's enjoyed the last few days. He thinks leaving the message was the best part. It surprises him that it was better than breaking into Torchwood. He stores that away some place safe. He's nearly home and it's a good thing too because he's getting quite impatient. He doesn't want to be alone in the back of a cab. _Four minutes, twenty-three seconds_. He's almost home.

When he steps into their flat, John's nowhere in sight. His coat isn't there either. _Working? Pub? Date?_ That last one grates, more than it used to. He takes up a thinking pose. _Number two will do_, he thinks, then flops down onto the sofa. He needs to be horizontal. He does think, of course he thinks, but mostly he's waiting. He could text, as he usually does but he's trying to hold out for as long as he can. A challenge? A game? He's not sure. It just seems like he should. He's used to denying himself things that he wants. Especially, when he wants something more than he should. He wonders, _ a new addiction?_ Some part of his brain counters, _it's not new. _

**IANTO'S STILL UP** but he doesn't want to be. His sister's been drunk for such a long time that she's passed out of the _tipsy-having fun-great to be around_ stage into the _almost hung over-weepy-oblivious to the misery of others_ stage and insists on sharing too many personal things in absolutely the wrong place and time. She wants him to do the same but Ianto's not playing her painful little game so she's going to be disappointed. She's attached herself to his left side and she won't release her vice-like grip on his arm. It's clear; he won't be allowed to go to bed any time soon.

His pleasure is immediate and so utterly palpable when Jack texts that she momentarily slips from her oblivious fog and takes notice of his transformation. Suddenly, he's shining, brimming with joy. She sees love in his face. It's breathtaking. She leans in and tries to read the message. _I miss you, _it reads_. _She sighs and lets out a high-pitched whine, thinking dreamily of the early days of her marriage. Ianto's still grinning at his phone when she closes her eyes.

**IF JOHN HAD** a pedometer, he'd realize just how far he's actually walked today. He's kept busy. Earlier, he did the shopping. It turned into something else though when he got caught up in the organic section. He tried to make it look like he was comparison-shopping but after a few hours even the dimmest of the apathetic underpaid staff began to notice his odd behaviour. He ended up browsing through every single isle of TESCO'S. Well, except for the prophylactic section, which he skirted around quite pointedly. He still left with two embarrassingly small bags of food, just as he always did. Then he tidied the entire flat, scrubbing it within an inch of its life. And for a long desperate moment, he even considered doing the hallway. He came to his senses though and managed to grab his coat before scurrying out of the front door once again.

He went to the pub where he usually meets Greg or another of his friends. He tried to find someone who'd come and meet him but everyone was busy. So he sat, watched some telly, ate some greasy pub fair, drank too many pints and chatted up the bartender. She slipped him her number somewhere between the first and the fifth pint. He spent most of the afternoon there. He decided it was time to leave when his ass went to sleep and he nearly slid off of the stool.

He stopped at a bookstore on his way home. There was a brief moment of self-recrimination when he was assailed by the thought, _You're just stalling for time mate. _However, he promptly rejected that self-abusing notion and with a heartfelt inner snarl he reassured himself that, _Bugger off!_ _I can do whatever the hell I want. Sherlock be dammed. _ He started in the mystery section but somehow ended up in the self-help section somewhere between _Love Languages_ and _So You Think You Might Be Bisexual?_

**SHERLOCK IS STILL** waiting. His well-rounded tush is well ensconced between the sofa cushions. He's curled up, still wrapped in his long coat. He snaps out of a heavy train of thought at the sound of the door opening and closing downstairs. He sits up, smooths out his imaginary wrinkles and listens. _Heavy tread—John not Mrs. Hudson—he's tripped—bumped into the wall—injured? _He stands as John pushes the door inwards. One look and he knows_, good, not injured then. Ah, John's drunk. _

John is very drunk but not enough to be concerning. He's smiling. Well, grinning would be more accurate. He misses the hook, twice. Then he drops his coat on the ground. He waves a hand in the air that says, _screw it_. Sherlock takes a step forward but John turns abruptly. He follows him into the kitchen. He goes straight for the kettle, gets that set up and then slumps over onto the kitchen table, face snuggled into crossed arms. There's an audible sigh. He's exhausted; he can't take another step. He's been running away from this conversation all day long. But he knew it would catch up with him eventually. Whatever gave him the idea that being drunk would make this any easier?

TBC

[one more chapter to go!]


	8. UNDENIABLE

~8~

UNDENIABLE

* * *

**SHERLOCK WAITS BUT JOHN DOESN'T** **MOVE** or even speak for several minutes. When the kettle whistles he gets up and makes them tea. He doesn't usually make the tea because John makes it so much better but it's a needed distraction. Also, he thinks John will appreciate the reprieve.

John's doing his best to remain calm, which means holding back the deluge of thoughts and worries that have been plaguing him for the last 48 hours. He's doing his best not to think about it [or anything else for that matter] but he's doing a piss poor job of it. Sherlock is hovering and he's so quiet that it's starting to unnerve him. He's obviously waiting for John to speak first but John's determined. He's not starting this. He can't. He's terrified of this precipice—this emotional abyss with its potential for ruining a perfectly perfect friendship and he's not going to take the first step. Plus, there's the beer.

Sherlock's running through the imminent conversation in his mind—in the John wing. He's calculating potential responses and reactions but there are just too many permutations. Time and time again, John has proven that he is an _unknown_ variable. He's wrong more often than he's right when it comes to predicting John's reaction to any given thing. Especially the important things.

His hands are planted flat on the counter and his eyes are closed tightly. Aside from a steadily beating heart and the subtle rhythmic expansion of his chest he may as well be a finely carved statue. He needs to think. The tea needs to brew for twenty-three more seconds so he has a few moments. He imagines…

_I'll say, "John, we need to talk… no, John, I want to talk…"_

_If he's tired he'll say, __**"About what Sherlock?"**_

_If he's angry with me he'll suspect the worst and say, __**"What have you done now?"**_

_If he's happy he'll say something humorous or snippy like, __**"Well, that doesn't bode well for the Universe." **_

Sherlock thinks about John's present mood. It's hard to tell. He's been so quiet since he stumbled into the house. He's drunk. It's impossible to predict with any certainty what he will or won't say.

_Perhaps I should be more direct. I could just ask him for more information. "John, I… want… to know about THAT MAN… tell me about your feelings… guh! John, tell me about your interactions with THAT MAN."_

Sherlock considers what he knows about typical human behaviour. And then he factor's in John's_… John-ness_. He knows a demand for information is unlikely to produce the desired end-result.

_He'll say, __**"No, Sherlock... that's none of your business."**_

He needs to try a different approach. Perhaps he could try interrogation technique number four. That's usually quite successful. He shifts

_"John, I'm confused—I'm uncomfortable—I'm… oh, bugger [Remove]— John, I lo.. [No—Stop] John, you are my friend. I like you, John—[No—Ridiculous] John, I'm concerned…"_

_He'll be cautious. He might say,__** "About what, Sherlock?"**_

_About what? About what? About what? What do I say? "Don't stand so close to beautiful men-women-people-anyone-anyone else… John. Don't stand so close to anyone else, John"_

_John will raise an eyebrow, probably cross his arms and then he'll say,__** "And why is that Sherlock?"**_

He checks the tea… fourteen seconds left_. _

_He knows there is no right answer. But he has to say something. "Because… I don't like it? I'm… it makes me angry? It makes me… nervous—afraid—terrified—you'll leave—you'll fall in love—you'll never come back—you'll leave—you'll leave me!_

_What would he say? What would John say if I told him that? Impossible to predict. Because I wouldn't, would I? I'd never tell him the truth. I'm a coward—I'm a fool—I'm alone and I'll always be alone. I never minded before. I never minded before—John. When did I start minding? Christ, I don't even know. It's disgraceful. I don't even know my own mind. Disgraceful._

His heart rate has sped up and so too has his breathing. It's uncomfortable.

He checks the tea… five seconds left.

_John… John will not accept this… attempt at control. He'll respond with anger—probability is near 90%.__** "It's none of your business whom I stand close to Sherlock." **__He would be very angry at me._

_"But, John. It is. Isn't it? It feels like it is." Bugger. Why does it? Christ, this is a disaster! _

He hangs his head and sighs. _What am I going to do?_

It's been ages—at least it feels like it has. John lifts his head wearily and says, "Is it ready yet?"

Sherlock blinks and clears his throat as quietly as possible. After a brief pause, he replies "Yes, _John_." John's name sounds like silk on Sherlock's tongue. He fixes their teas and he's careful not to spill them on the way to the table. He sits across from John so he'll have a direct line of sight. John thanks him with a nod and a brief smile when Sherlock pushes the mug in front of him.

Sherlock notes the dark bruises under his eyes and the deep creases around his lips. He smells like smoke and alcohol and a touch of perfume but he's relieved that there's no evidence of a sexual encounter. Finally, he says, "You look tired, _John_," and there's a hint of concern in his voice as well as in the lines on _his_ face. John meets his gaze briefly. Sherlock continues his scan, lingering on a few key areas of John's body. Then suddenly, his eyes are alight with knowing. "_You've_ had a busy day," he says. His voice is relatively gentle, if not a little amused. John's clothes are soiled from a variety of sources. He sees the residue of at least six different substances on his trousers. _Cleaning products, sweat, ink, dust, peanut shells, beer…_ _He's been busy, abnormally busy_, he thinks. A ghost of a smile touches his lips and aloud he adds, "_Very_… busy indeed."

John doesn't reply. Instead, he takes a drink and shifts in his chair. He knows he's been deduced. It was only a matter of time. John continues to sip his tea. It's scalding hot and his tongue is protesting but at least it keeps his mouth full. He can pretend he's being polite.

Sherlock holds his teacup firmly with both hands, grateful for the heat that is seeping into his stiff digits. He's got his long elegant fingers laced together, one hand over the other and for some reason, John can't take his eyes off of them. Sherlock looks down at his hands to see what John's looking at and that's enough to break John's trance.

His heartbeat quickens and his face flushes with heat. He's been caught staring. His eyes flick up without reaching Sherlock's and the nervous blogger takes another sip of his scalding hot tea.

John is flushed and nervous and Sherlock can't help but postulate the reason why. He tries but he has to admit his findings are inconclusive. He's not got enough data. Oh, what he wouldn't give for a peek inside of John's delicious little brain. Normally, John has a resting heart rate of 62 beats per minute. He's fit and he has a strong heart. Currently, his heart is beating substantially faster than that. His carotid artery is throbbing visibly at a whopping 147 beats per minute. His stillness is completely incongruent with his obvious level of anxiety. "_John_," he says gently, "Are you _unwell_?"

**JOHN SNORTS A LITTLE** bit of tea out of his left nostril. He chokes and his eyes are watering substantially. It takes him a few moments to regain his composure. While he's waiting, Sherlock cocks his head to the side and regards him with concern. Finally, once John has a handle on his breathing he meets Sherlock's gaze and manages to speak. "No… guh… Sherlock… I'm fine." He gasps out the words. Sherlock leans forward over the table and judging by the frown on his face, he is most certainly unconvinced. John is feeling a little desperate now, his eyes are still watering and he's struggling to think of a way to redirect Sherlock's focus. In an attempt to regain control of himself and the topic of their conversation, he decides on an offensive defense. "What have _you_ been up to today Sherlock?"

He's rewarded with a smile and it's a wide one. John thinks, _he looks like the cat that's got the canary, or some cream, Christ, maybe the whole creamery_. John relaxes and smirks at his obvious delight and waits for Sherlock's tale.

Sherlock leans forward and assumes a conspiratorial tone. "I broke into THAT MAN'S hotel room again." His eyes glitter. He's almost giddy.

"You mean… Jack Harkness?"

"Of course, John. Do keep up," he snaps, more sharply than he meant to. But it really irks him that John insists on saying THAT MAN'S name.

John arches a brow. The message is clear. _Oh, it's like that is it?_ He crosses him arms and leans back in his chair. He's not feeling particularly patient. He's not sure how much Snippy Sherlock he can handle. "Again?" he prompts impatiently, tapping his foot.

Sherlock stills his twitching foot, takes a breath and resolves to be 'nicer'. "He's changed rooms. A pitiful attempt at evasion. Some interesting video surveillance. Quite high tech. I cracked his safe and went through his laptop. He's creepy," he leans in and his lips quirk. "He collects CCTV footage of his friends." If John didn't know any better he'd say Sherlock sounds more than a little impressed with this guys creepiness.

John's eyes are wide and slightly protruding from his eye sockets. "Sounds like Mycroft," John scoffs, making Sherlock chuckle. Then suddenly his eyes widen. "Shit!" he realizes, "Has he got footage of you? Breaking into his room?" He sounds concerned because he is.

Sherlock's mouth curves and he waves off John's concern with a sweeping gesture. "No. That's been erased."

He gets a quirked lip in reply. What else is there to say? It's obviously been taken care of. He presses on. "So. What did you find out?"

"Most of it was irrelevant. Personal photographs and such. Some correspondence. Some references to the agency he works for. They are based in Cardiff. The head office is here in London. Not part of the government. At least not the part Mycroft controls." He pauses and taps an index finger across his bottom lip. He decides John doesn't need to hear about breaking into Torchwood. His eyes narrow fractionally and he considers his next statement carefully. "He has a boyfriend," he announces.

John frowns. He appears confused by the apparent non-sequitur and says, "How is that relevant?" But deep down, he's annoyed by how easily he's been herded onto the sacrificial altar. Sherlock has him exactly where he wants him. _Oh Christ_, he thinks, _here it comes_.

Sherlock replies with an air of artificial nonchalance that has taken at least a decade to cultivate. "He's not likely available once he returns home." He's is still tapping his lip and John is finding it quite distracting.

"Unavailable for what?" John is still frowning.

With an exasperated sigh, Sherlock replies, "For you John. Unavailable for you. Do pay attention."

"Pay attention?" John nearly screeches. "Pay attention… to what?" He only pauses long enough to draw in a quick breath before demanding, "And why would I care if he's unavailable?" He changes his mind. He doesn't want an answer. He's had enough. He holds up both hands and says loudly, "No. Just don't. I don't care. Just stop!" He drags both hands through his hair and pulls lightly in frustration. "_Guh_," he groans. "I'm too tired for this…" He sighs and his hands slip over his face and stay there.

"Too tired for what, _John_?" Sherlock sounds hesitant. John is tense-anxious-wary and that makes Sherlock wary too.

"This conversation," he mumbles through his Finger-Fortress of Solitude.

"Why is this conversation so over-taxing?" He knows it's a stupid question before it's even out of his mouth. He was trying for levity, the way John does when situations get tense. He curses himself. _Damn social norms. I am sorely ill-equipped in this area._

John's hands slide back into his hair. "Because, I know exactly where you're going with this… this line of… I know what you're trying to do." His brain is so muddled. He can barely finish a sentence. _Damn beer. Damn sentences_.

Sherlock feigns innocence. It's not quite up to par. "What am I trying to do, _John_?"

John huffs and shakes his head. He relents. "I know you want to talk about Monday night."

Sherlock has steepled his fingertips just under the tip of his nose. "Hmmmmm… Yes. Monday night." Sherlock thinks he'd be justified in pointing out the fact that it was John who first raised the subject. It's debatable. Unfortunately, now is just not the time. Of that much, he's certain.

John sighs and asks, "Why did you break into his room again, Sherlock?"

"I needed more data."

"What kind of data?"

"Well… all of it, John," he snaps. He sounds irritated again. "You know it's impossible to determine what kind of data one will find or need for that matter until you have explored all of the possible sources."

John just wants to escape this. He stands up, unsteadily. He hates it when Sherlock talks down to him. He is so tired that his eyes are starting to close of their own accord. He has to hold the back of the chair to stop from swaying. He's going to pass out soon and he's never been more thankful. He decides. It's time to get to the point. He declares, "I'm not interested in him, Sherlock."

Sherlock's lip curls into a sneer. "That is obviously untrue." _Don't lie to me John_, he pleads internally and for once, it's also written on his face.

"It's not!" John insists.

"I saw you." Sherlock stands up abruptly, pushing the chair back. "I observed you—your reaction—both at the time and over the last 48 hours. You showed clear signs of undeniable sexual arousal while in his presence. Not being attracted and not wanting to be attracted are not the same thing."

John flushes, his skin is scalding but he endures Sherlock's steady, challenging gaze. He spreads his legs and assumes a more balanced stance. Hands on hips now, combative and fed up, John decides they're having this conversation once and for all. "Why is this so important to you, Sherlock?" he demands.

** TBC**


	9. REVELATION

~9~

REVELATION

* * *

**SHERLOCK'S EYES WIDEN IN SURPRISE**. John is suddenly quite angry. Only moments ago, he was tired, evasive and resigned. Now, he is fuming and seemingly in control of the conversation. As always, Sherlock is fascinated by John's rapid mood swings and the resulting cinematic display of emotions playing across his face and body. The edges of his lips curl into a smile, undetectable by most. He's not sure if John notices.

John takes a step around the table, one step closer to Sherlock and says, "**_Tell me_**." His voice has dropped a register or two. It's in the Determined Range now, the one usually reserved for intimidating petty criminals. The stubbornly uncooperative ones.

In response, Sherlock raises a pale brow and his lips twitch, just a little at the corner. It looks like he's trying to hold back a smirk and John's eyes narrow suspiciously. It wouldn't be wise to mock John at this precise moment. He's angry enough to throw a punch, he's tired enough to misjudge the force of his swing, and he's drunk enough to _aim_ for Sherlock's nose and teeth.

Sherlock smoothes out his facial muscles, creating a blank, utterly neutral mask. When he meets John's stroppy gaze, he's as inoffensive as he can be.

He's stalling, he knows. It's just that he hasn't decided. How much should he say? How honest should he be? This could be the moment he's been waiting for. It could also be the end of their friendship.

His hand reaches up. Once again, he taps his bottom lip with his index finger. It's soothing—helps him process. His tapping mirrors an inner song, one that he's been composing over the last several hours. It's been playing simultaneously, a parallel process, something like background music. Several sections of the orchestra accompany this little snippet, his favorite part really. He's looking forward to playing it for John once this whole business is behind them.

**_"Why Sherlock?"_** repeats John.

"I'm curious." Sherlock takes a deep breath through his nose and tilts his head a few degrees. "I have never seen you respond to a man, in that way, before." He pauses. "I'm curious. Why… him?"

John pales. He has no answer. He's thought about it for hours but in all of that time, he's come up with nothing.

In a measured, quiet voice, Sherlock asks, "Did you think he was handsome?" John notices a slight twitch in Sherlock's jaw. He thinks something's not quite right; his body language is a little too controlled. He looks like he's in pain.

"No." John answers quickly but he gulps when he sees the hurt in Sherlock's eyes. He knows it's because he's just lied to him. And of course, Sherlock knows that he lied. He always knows. He bites his lip. More quietly, he says, "Yes. I guess." A pause. "But not… I mean… he's a good-looking person… that's obvious. But… he's not… I don't think…" _Oh, Christ,_ he moans inwardly. He's drowning in unfinished sentences and it's painful. "I wouldn't normally even consider him at all—not in that way."

"Do you normally find men attractive?" Sherlock presses.

"No," he says quietly. "Not normally, no." He sighs and his eyes close.

"Never?" Sherlock sounds a bit… anxious… a bit too invested. It's strange and seemingly inappropriate for the conversation but that's not unusual for Sherlock. John should probably be used to this by now.

Just the same, it is enough to make him open his eyes and drop his hands. When he does, he sees that Sherlock is looking at him with a focused intensity that's he's seen many times before. His eyes are a piercing glitter of swirling ocean tides; his lips are now parted and glistening from a quick swipe of his tongue. However, that look is usually reserved for a really interesting murder victim. He finds himself struggling with a desert like throat. "Once or twice," he finally admits.

Sherlock inches forward eagerly. "May I ask what they looked like? What they did for a living? How old were they?"

John flinches and replies with a sharp, "NO!" John would not—could not—will not—voluntarily give Sherlock a single piece of information on this topic. He draws the line.

"Why not John?" He takes another step. "I'm very _curious_," he says, in a slightly petulant tone. "_I need to know_." It comes out as a desperate plea. It's almost comical; how he manages to make petulant whining sexy, is beyond him.

John doesn't reply but his eyebrows go up a few centimetres.

Sherlock thinks, _oh, all right_. He takes a chance. "I want to know who you find attractive. I've seen your female interests. You've given me plenty of data on that side but I don't have enough data with regards to the _type_ of men you find attractive."

John frowns and runs a hand through his thoroughly mussed hair. "Why should that matter, Sherlock?"

"I want to know."

"Yes, I understand that," John says with a chuckle. "But why?"

Sherlock hesitates. "For… personal use."

"What?"

"For personal interest, John." Sherlock scowls. "Don't make me repeat myself!" He grits his teeth.

John retorts, "Well, then I suggest you start making sense!"

Sherlock scoffs. He has a point.

John takes a step forward and says, "Why Sherlock?"

"I want a comparison."

John shifts forward.

Sherlock bites the inside of his lip. He's squirming. "This really isn't my area John. I've told you that." He huffs. "I need more data. I _can't tell!"_ It's a frustrated wail.

And at that confession, John's eyes go wide with understanding.

"I can't understand _why_ you were attracted to THAT MAN John!" With each word, his voice is getting incrementally louder. "Why him John? Of all people—why him?" He very nearly whines.

John, it turns out, is quite shocked. "I… didn't mean to," he whispers. He's starting to see something… something that he's never noticed before.

"_Irrelevant_ John!" he snaps. "His eyes? It is blue eyes? Well? John? Long lashes? Or his hair? Do you like short brown hair? Or maybe it was his cheekbones. Did you like them? Did you? Or perhaps it was the uniform? His coat? His height? Was it his height? His muscles? What was it John?" Sherlock sounds desperate and out of breath. His words have come out in a long frustrated string and to John's surprise, Sherlock has a long fingered hand wrapped around each of his biceps.

He's standing far too close, holding John's gaze as well as his arms. Their eyes are locked and he can hear Sherlock's breathing.

**JOHN SWALLOWS DOWN** his painfully dry throat and then he smiles nervously. He makes a decision, one he hopes he doesn't regret come morning. In the back of his mind, he knows that this spike of courage is bolstered by alcohol and exhaustion. He takes a few settling breaths and then with a soft gentle voice he says, "I like blue eyes, Sherlock. Especially, light blue." He takes a breath. "I like… dark brown hair but… uhm… not so short." He smiles. "I like paler skin. He was too tanned. And it looked kind of fake." He looks down at the floor. "I like smart long coats." His eyes track up Sherlock's body. "They look good." He's struggling with self-control. There are just too many impulses bombarding him all at once. His mouth betrays the smirk bubbling there. "Sexy." He swallows loudly. "Tall is good." His voice has gone breathy but it can't be helped. "Bulky muscles... Nah. Strong and wiry is better." He clears his throat. "And his cheekbones were nothing to write home about." He smirks, raises a brow, looks pointedly at Sherlock's cheeks. "He was too… cocky." He almost sputters at that last word. God, he's going to regret this. "Without any brain power to back it up."

John is still smiling, almost chuckling when he finishes his wish list. Sherlock is still holding his upper arms. If anything, he's holding on even tighter. He's standing close enough to share a breath. It's sweet and a little spicy, just like always. John smirks when realization dawns dramatically on Sherlock's face. His eyes light up and go wide while his mouth rounds into a surprised silent, "_Oh_."

John nods his head subtly and smiles even wider. He leans forward, very very slowly and kisses Sherlock chastely on the lips. It's just a tender brush of sensitive skin. His lips are a little rough—from gnawing on them all damn day. Sherlock's are plump and excruciatingly soft. It feels like home. It's perfect. It's staggering. But he needs to stay in control—for just a few more minutes. He leans back and almost swoons like a bloody Victorian maiden. He reaches out for the nearest chair and fights to remain conscious. Damn, he can't hold out much longer. He's going to pass out.

Sherlock is apparently frozen. Time, he thinks, is not passing as it should. The music has stopped playing mid-note. There is a sense of clarity but that he thinks is due to the sudden lack of motion within his mind. It's just stopped. It's all stopped. And for a moment, he just stands there.

Then as suddenly as they stopped, his synapses are firing once again, lightning strike fast. He realizes that he didn't return the kiss. It all happened too fast. He is suddenly certain that he would like to. Return the kiss, that is. He notices that he's dropped his hands. He doesn't know when he did that. Then John is stepping back. Stepping away. And it is more than a bit not good. Then John looks dizzy. He remembers how drunk he is. He was very close to passing out earlier—even before the tea—but he fought his way through it just like he usually does. He's swaying now. He's fighting a losing battle. Sherlock makes a decision. He steps closer—ahhh, he realizes… it feels… _better_—and he wraps an arm around John's back and murmurs, "Come on, _John_. I'll help you upstairs." John nods and smiles weakly. He lets Sherlock guide him, half carry him up the stairs.

Once they make it through the bedroom door, Sherlock guides John to the foot of the bed. He helps him get undressed down to his pants and t-shirt. Sherlock's glad the room is dimly lit because he's sure his cheeks are pink.

He pulls back the covers so that he can tuck him in. As he's about to pull away and close the door John says, "Stay… _please?_" The words are a deep rumble, impossible to ignore.

So Sherlock walks back to the bed uneasily. John pats the space next to him. Sherlock raises a brow, pauses for a moment. He hears an unfamiliar chorus of: _don't think—just do it—don't think about it—John wants this—John, is drunk but—John, still wants this—you want this—just stop thinking! _He's not sure why but he shrugs into the dark. He takes off his coat, his suit jacket, his shoes and then slides under the blanket beside John. John holds the blanket up for him and waits for Sherlock to get comfortable before snuggling closer.

John is well and truly drunk. Sherlock knows this. He knows this isn't a regular situation. He also doesn't care about regular situations. Not one iota. Sherlock notices how dry his mouth and throat are and he swallows several times. John is still chilled from walking outside but Sherlock is warm from being wrapped up in his coat on the sofa for the last few hours. John snuggles into his side and Sherlock pulls his arm out of the way. He's not sure where to put it though so he holds it in the air for a moment or two. Finally, he decides to place it behind John's back. It feels quite nice.

John sighs and snuggles even closer. He's pressed along Sherlock's side from tip to toe. When John's hand slides over his stomach, he tenses in surprise. His touch leaves a trail of little sparkling fires in its path and his muscles twitch and spasm—just a little bit—beneath his hand. His awareness turns inwards; Sherlock can't believe how thirsty he's become and he's suddenly very aware of his accelerated heart rate. He's experiencing a great deal of muscle tension throughout his entire body. He feels like he does when he's getting ready for a fight—only different.

He attempts to still his racing heart and mind and chants, _John, John, John_. This time it's less of an anchor, more of a litany. He's drawn outwards again when John slips a couple of fingers between the front closures on his shirt. Then he feels John's cool fingers caress his skin in little tantalizing circles. When they brush over his navel, he makes a noise he hasn't planned. John grips him tighter.

He's surprisingly comfortable and warm. His heart is still pounding and so is John's but he has no desire to move. After a few moments, John starts murmuring into his shoulder, "Sher—mmm—Sherlock—uhhh—don't go—" He groans. "He… he smelled good y'know? But—your voice—mmm—s'better—much better—" He can't be sure but he thinks John is chuckling into his side.

Before he's able to say anything more incriminating Sherlock says, "Go to sleep _John_. I'll keep watch." The deep, seductive rumble of Sherlock's voice spreads deep into John's core. He stifles a groan and quiets immediately. After a moment, he sighs and buries his face more deeply into Sherlock's side. It makes something in Sherlock's chest clench.

The room is quiet and warm. It's safe and he feels… _something_. He can't really put a name to it. It's not something he usually feels. It's new, which would normally be a good thing. He likes new. But this is different. It's _inside_ him. He doesn't like new things that originate from inside him, especially if he can't define them. Sherlock digs around inside his meticulously organized Mind Palace, trying to identify the emotion he feels, but finds only more confusion, more questions. There's something there, it's hard and it's painful. He knows he should recognize it but he doesn't. This prompts more feelings, unease and confusion, and they linger too. Those at least he recognizes.

He lies there for the next twenty-three minutes contemplating his current position. It takes longer than normal because he's continually distracted by his disobedient transport. There's the racing heart, the weird aching in his chest and a twisting in his stomach, the heated skin, the sweating, and of course the persistent erection. Logically, he could slip from the bed undetected at any point, now that John is sound asleep but he's hesitant. To his utter surprise, Sherlock lies for hours in John's bed with John in his arms and he likes it very much.

THE END


End file.
